


weaves and threads

by leaveanote



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Geralt Helps Him Out of Them, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier Wears Complicated Clothes, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Romance, Sex, spoiler alert it is very not platonic, totally platonic undressing, we construct intricate rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:21:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28077648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leaveanote/pseuds/leaveanote
Summary: Jaskier gets back to their shared room at the inn and finds he’s too tired to undo the intricate lacings of his clothes.Geralt gives him a hand.Just...so they don’t wrinkle. To keep Jaskier from complaining, of course!Of course.Turns out there’s quite a few things Jaskier isn’t too tired for.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 35
Kudos: 640
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection, Just.... So cute...





	weaves and threads

**Author's Note:**

> this would not leave my head!  
> title inspired by the rockrose and the thistle by the amazing devil.

“Stupid—godsdamn— _ ouch!” _

Geralt sighs. He sets down the poultice he was working on for the second time tonight, the first just moments ago when Jaskier stumbled tiredly against the door of their shared room at the inn. Geralt had opened it and Jaskier had tumbled inside, assuring Geralt he was fine. 

It’s not alcohol, they’d each had a single drink with their meal, and Jaskier doesn’t smell like he’s been drinking more. He smells like he always does, buttery and bright, so he’s all right overall, really. It’s just the first day they’ve had a roof over their heads and a proper bed in a long, long time, and Jaskier, instead of  _ resting  _ like he should  _ know  _ to do, decided to put on one of his nicest doublets and go prance away singing, presumably to romance half the town. 

Which is fine. Absolutely fucking fine. It’s just fine that Jaskier laces on those fussy, ornate outfits just begging to be undone, especially when they’re on the path and he has no one to show off to besides Geralt, who is certainly not his intended target and is certainly not mesmerized by said outfits.

Except now Jaskier’s back, alone, and the exhaustion seems to have caught up with him. 

And those damned doublets are no friend to tired human eyes.

“What d’you need?” Geralt grumbles. He moves to where Jaskier’s lying dramatically on the bed, one arm flung over his eyes with his still-booted feet on the floor. Jaskier sits up at once.

“Oh—it’s nothing, I’m fine!” He gives a valiant effort at a grin through his bleary eyes.

“No.” Geralt looks him up and down, takes in the half-undone buttons, the angry redness on Jaskier’s fingers where he seems to have yanked on his laces.

“The latest fashions button in the back, what else was I to do! Ugh, it’s my own fault for trying to remain  _ stylish  _ even when I’m near-dead from exhaustion,” Jaskier sighs, burying his face in his hands. 

“Yes, it is.” Geralt’s lip twitches, and he’s grateful Jaskier’s eyes are hidden.

“Worth it, though. Made a good amount of coin tonight, my friend.” And he does grin this time, peeking out at Geralt and nodding at a sizable pouch by his lute on the floor. “They were big fans of yours, asked for several encores. Quite generous, after your masterfully completed contract today! The Great White Wolf, devouring a nest of fearsome bruxas!” 

“They don’t nest,” Geralt says automatically, “and there was just one.”

Jaskier groans.

“Do hush and let me adore you, I’m too exhausted to argue tonight.”

Something warm and familiar twists in Geralt gut. He ignores it.

“Shut up, stand up, and turn around.”

Jaskier’s breath hitches.

“What?” he asks, his voice very high.

Geralt rolls his eyes, kicking himself internally. He should really be more careful with his word choice. Can’t scare him away.

“I’m getting your damned buttons off.”

Jaskier flushes pink.

“Oh! That’s—that’s very kind of you, but—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls, in a tone that brooks no argument.

Jaskier sits up. He stands, which brings them nearly nose to nose. He opens his mouth and then seems to think better of it, just gazing up at Geralt through those infuriatingly long lashes instead.

“Turn around,” Geralt says softly, and Jaskier does.

It’s...a maze of buttons. Geralt tries not to groan aloud. They’re nearly  _ beads,  _ tiny and tucked into individual loops, running the length of Jaskier’s spine. There’s a series of clasps beneath them, too. Geralt squints. Shouldn’t be too awful, just may take some time. Jaskier’d only gotten to the first few. It’s a wonder he’d even gotten those.

Geralt carefully picks the top button open, making sure not to tear the loop. His fingers feel thick and clumsy next to such delicate finery. Witcher armor hasn’t prepared him for anything like this and most of his former bedmates just undressed themselves. 

This is different from anything he’s ever done, just like everything with Jaskier is. This is an intimacy he wasn’t prepared for. 

Fuck.

He moves on, exhaling heavily when he nearly pulls one off, and Jaskier...shivers.

Geralt realizes his breath must be hot, there against the soft curve of Jaskier’s throat. 

“Sorry,” he grunts, swearing at himself internally. He’s very glad Jaskier’s not facing him, his cheeks feel warm. He tries to hurry as best as he can without ripping anything, but there’s nothing for it, he has to go slow.

“It’s okay,” Jaskier says. He doesn’t sound remotely tired anymore, just oddly out of breath. Geralt shifts his weight, moves his hands lower on Jaskier’s body.

“How’d you even get  _ into  _ this?” he grumbles. 

“It’s not that hard, normally!” Jaskier insists. “I’ve got practice. And I’m very flexible.”

_ Fucking gods. _

Geralt grits his teeth. Tries to meditate while manuevering a tiny fucking button through a tiny satin loop. Doesn’t work. In part because this takes genuine focus. In part because the more he unbuttons, the more of Jaskier is laid nearly bare, only the thin, nearly transparent layer of his summer chemise between Geralt and his warm, muscled back. And Geralt’s seen him naked a thousand times, in baths, washing his clothes in riverbanks, rushing out of someone’s bedchambers, but this is a new shape of closeness, undressing Jaskier himself, here in their room. 

Jaskier trusts him. 

Fuck. Geralt knows Jaskier trusts him with his life, sure, but this is...something else.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says softly. He glances, briefly, over his shoulder. “You didn’t—you didn’t have to do this. You still don’t, you know, I can always just sleep in it and deal with the buttons after a night of rest. I know it’s annoying.”

“You’re annoying,” Geralt grumbles with no bite. “Don’t want you complaining about wrinkles.”

That’s true enough that Geralt can tell himself it’s the only reason. He’s more than halfway down now, his fingers brushing the deep divot of Jaskier’s strong back. It’s definitely the only reason.

“Ah,” Jaskier says, sounding strangely disappointed. “Of—of course. That’s fair of you. Regardless, I am grateful.”

“Mm.” 

Geralt gets the rest of the buttons undone in silence. It’s their usual, comfortable sort of silence, but there’s a tension in the air Geralt doesn’t quite understand. It’s not unpleasant, though. He doesn’t sense any  _ discomfort  _ from Jaskier, at least. Once the last buttons slip free in his fingers, Geralt straightens, and parts the doublet. 

He doesn’t need to be doing this, he registers vaguely, Jaskier should be perfectly capable of removing his own clothes at  _ this  _ point, but it feels wrong to stop, so he doesn’t, and Jaskier doesn’t stop him. He lets Geralt pull the doublet off one sleeve, then the other, and then Geralt’s just  _ holding  _ the damn torture device and Jaskier’s throat is bare and vulnerable, just there beneath Geralt’s mouth, glowing in the firelight. His chemise is so thin, Geralt so close, it moves with his breath.

Jaskier swallows, the muscles in his throat working, and something sharp in his scent peaks. It’s not unpleasant. Geralt takes a step back, half-dizzy with it.

“Here,” he says, holding out the doublet. Jaskier turns slowly and takes it. He looks at Geralt with those bright, brilliant eyes—and Geralt panics. His mind races. What’s the appropriate thing to do now?

Geralt drops to his knees.

“Geralt!” Jaskier squeaks.

“Laces,” Geralt mutters, gesturing to Jaskier’s boots. “Sit.”

“Oh.” Jaskier sits.

Perhaps this wasn’t the wisest move. Geralt ducks his head, concentrates on unlacing. These are far easier, at least. He knows knots. Good thing, too, because Jaskier’s earlier attempts  _ have  _ made knots out of these knee-high lacings. Geralt takes Jaskier’s calf in his palm and tilts his foot toward him, trying not to think about the muscles he feels there. 

It’s when he’s halfway down the second boot that he realizes. 

He smells it first. That same sharpness in Jaskier’s scent, only this time, perhaps because Geralt’s fighting back his own, he recognizes it as arousal. And then he glances up to see that Jaskier’s biting his lip, trying not to whimper, and...he’s holding his doublet just so across his waist.

“Ah.”

“I’m sorry!” Jaskier hisses, clearly mortified, and Geralt’s mind works doubletime to explain away the obvious.

“Didn’t know you liked having your boots taken off,” he says, perhaps too loudly, and Jaskier stares at him in a sort of haze of confusion and disbelief.

“What? The  _ boots  _ have nothing to—”

“It’s all right, Jaskier,” Geralt says,  _ not  _ looking at him. He gets the second boot off, and there, his job is done. Very good. Heart can stop racing  _ any  _ time now. Concentrate on anything besides the bulge very close to his mouth. “I know it’s not the boots.”

_ “Good, _ I—”

Or how good Jaskier’s arousal smells up close.

“Just the sensation of having someone between your legs will do it, I suppose.” Is Geralt’s voice higher than usual? Fuck. “Getting your clothes off.” 

“What—that most certainly is  _ not  _ all it takes—”

“Look, I know you didn’t find a romantic partner tonight, you’re all riled up.” Geralt waves his hand dismissively, still kneeling and staring at the floor. “Nothing to do with me.”

“Geralt!” Jaskier exclaims, exasperatedly enough that Geralt does, at last, look up at him. His eyes are very wide, and very shiny now. The scent of arousal is tinged with nervousness, amid waves of Jaskier’s usual buttery brightness. “It has everything to do with you.”

The silence in the little room is deafening.

“What?” Geralt growls, and no, that’s not the silence anymore, it’s his heartbeat roaring in his ears.

_ “Fuck,  _ Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice breaks on his name. “It always does.” And with that, something waiting and aching inside Geralt gives way. 

“What are you saying?” 

“I know,” Jaskier says, shaking his head wildly, “I know you’ve got your sorceress, and your destiny, and your big loner thing going on. I  _ know,  _ all right? I know it’s hopeless, so I’ve been hiding it, but of  _ course  _ it’s you.” He looks at Geralt through his hair, miserably, and the next words come out a whisper. “It’s always been you.” 

Geralt blinks at him. Jaskier laughs, not his usual laugh at all, something humorless and heavy.

“Guess I’ve been doing a good job of hiding it,” he says softly.

“Yes,” Geralt says. “You have.”

“Or maybe you’re just an oblivious idiot.” Jaskier kicks at the floor with his socked foot.

“That’s...very possible,” Geralt concedes, because, fuck. He’s just figured out why Jaskier smells so bright and buttery all the time. Well, all the time that Geralt’s around. What that scent is, what it means. He feels like he’s very light, suddenly, and very warm all over too. “But if I am, so are you.”

Jaskier’s gaze darts to him. He furrows his brow, too fucking cutely. 

“What?” he says, and his voice is cautious but Geralt hears his heartbeat pick up, and not in nervousness this time.

Geralt puts his hand back on Jaskier’s thigh.

“I don’t deserve you, Jaskier,” he says quietly. “But I want to.”

Jaskier’s face travels on a rather epic quest of emotions. Geralt only wishes he had the time to memorize them all.

“I—you— _ you—?” _

“I do,” Geralt says, and squeezes his thigh.

“Well,” Jaskier sputters. He drags his hands through his hair, covers his mouth with them, shakes his head. He takes several deep, steadying breaths, and Geralt waits as patiently as he can. “Well,” Jaskier tries again, “I am  _ desperately  _ in love with you, you  _ arsehole,  _ so from here on out why don’t you let  _ me _ decide what I do and don’t deserve!”

“All right,” Geralt murmurs, and kisses him.

Jaskier makes a sound like he’s been wounded. And then he’s kissing back fierce and hungry and desperate with relief, tugging Geralt up to him. Time goes blurry at the edges, there’s only Jaskier and his damp mouth, his eager hands, the sweet, needful sounds he makes. 

Jaskier’s hands go in Geralt’s hair and that does something that makes Geralt melt, groaning low in his throat as he presses Jaskier to the bed, climbing on top of him. 

“Geralt, oh,  _ fuck—” _

“I love you,” Geralt says aloud, because he can now. He pulls back and watches Jaskier’s face light up as he says it, basks in the rush of his buttery-bright happiness. “I love you, I love you.” These he mouths into Jaskier’s jaw, his collarbone freshly freed from the doublet. 

“Oh, darling,” Jaskier sighs. He rolls his body up against Geralt, drawing out a sound Geralt hopes is understood as approval. “And—Melitele, love is one thing, but I never dared to think you wanted me like  _ this.” _

Geralt ruts against his thigh, burying his burning face in the crook of Jaskier’s shoulder. 

“All right,” Jaskier laughs, breathlessly. His hands travel the expanse of Geralt’s back, raking up his shirt. “All right, I was  _ wrong,  _ clearly, I just thought surely if you could take my fucking clothes off to no effect, there was no  _ way—” _

“It had an effect. I hid it.”

Jaskier blushes, prettily. Geralt fights the urge to kiss him on the nose, then gives in to it.

“Fucking gods, Geralt, really? Better than I could.”

“I didn’t think I deserved—” Geralt starts, but Jaskier quiets him with a kiss. 

“Right,” he pants, “well, darling. You do, and you’re done hiding now.” He wraps his legs around Geralt’s waist. “Show me how you want me?”

Geralt shakes his head.

“You’re sure you’re not too tired?” He brushes his mouth to Jaskier’s chin. “It doesn’t have to be tonight, love. I’m not going anywhere.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen, and then he smiles so softly they crinkle at the corners.

“Love,” he breathes,  _ “love— _ Geralt, I’ve never been so awake in my life.” He cups Geralt’s cheeks in his hands, which shouldn’t be as damn adorable as it is. “Haven’t you kept me waiting long enough?”

Fuck.

“All right,” Geralt murmurs, and Jaskier lets out an eager sound, tilting his hips up, and  _ fuck,  _ he’s so hard, he’s so  _ big,  _ Geralt can feel him through their trousers, pressing against his own erection. “What d’you want?”

“What’re you offering?” Jaskier asks, cheeky as always. Geralt huffs a breath through his nose.

“What are your...proclivities?”

Jaskier snorts. He’s smiling. Geralt’s smiling too. He can’t remember ever smiling in bed with anyone else. It feels so natural, with Jaskier. He’d told himself for long he couldn’t, it would never happen, he didn’t deserve it, but it just feels like the natural progression of their dynamic. It feels  _ right. _

“Proclivities? You know I like men,” Jaskier points out, “never fussed about gender, and even if you didn’t, I think  _ this  _ would be a giveaway, love—”

“No, I mean—” Geralt tries to think of an elegant metaphor, then remembers he doesn’t need to. It’s Jaskier. “You like to...penetrate. Is that a dealbreaker?”

Jaskier blushes again, and Geralt’s senses are flooded with the scent of his arousal.

“Nope. No, er. I do like to penetrate,” he says. He scratches Geralt’s scalp just as he knows Geralt likes it from their baths, and  _ oh,  _ that’s—that’s  _ very _ nice, both in that it does feel quite good and that finally, kissing gets to follow it. “But I do quite like the other way, as well. Quite like most things. Can’t think of anything I wouldn’t like, not when it comes to you. Definitely not a dealbreaker.” His eyes are very wide, gazing into Geralt’s. “What about you?”

Geralt grins, leaning into his touch.

“Not a dealbreaker for me either.”

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes. He tugs lightly on Geralt’s hair and  _ fuck,  _ that goes right between his legs. “Oh, wow.”

“So,” Geralt says, pressing his erection hot against Jaskier’s body. “Anything you’d like, really. What d’you want, Jask?”

“Everything,” Jaskier says at once, arching into him, “everything, anything you’ll ever do with me, I want to never leave this bed again until you’re through, and then I want to find another bed, because  _ fuck,  _ Geralt, I can’t count all the ways I want to be with you—”

“All right,” Geralt says quietly. He feels lighter than he’s ever been. “Where should I start?”

Jaskier kisses him, and they’re both smiling into it. Fuck, it’s more cathartic than any other kiss Geralt’s ever had, more than maybe anything. It feels so right, so natural, and Geralt doesn’t want to stop and he doesn’t have to.

“I think—I think I want you inside me, this first time,” Jaskier whispers into the closeness between them. “Would you do that, Geralt, would you fuck me?”

Geralt doesn’t have the words. Nothing seems big enough for how loud every bit of him sings  _ yes,  _ so he just kisses Jaskier hard, nodding, moving his hands down Jaskier’s body.

He brings his hands to the hem of Jaskier’s chemise, and when Jaskier nods, he pulls it off, and then he sets about kissing everywhere he’s always wanted to. That dip of Jaskier’s throat, the thicket of hair on his stomach, the sweet peek of his nipples. He tunes his senses to every reaction, learning, memorizing what Jaskier likes.

“It’s not fair,” he murmurs, his mouth somewhere behind Jaskier’s ear, while Jaskier, having gotten his shirt off, massages the muscles of his back. 

“What’s not, darling?” Jaskier asks, out of breath. 

“You know how I like to be touched. From baths, from wrapping my wounds, from tending to my scars. I don’t know how you like it.”

Jaskier laughs, low and merry, and Geralt feels it against his chest.

“I don’t know  _ all  _ the ways you like to be touched,” he says softly, arching into Geralt just so. “And you’ll learn, you’ve always been a quick study.  _ Th—that, _ for example, is—ah!— _ excellent—” _

“Mm.” Geralt moves lower, mouthing at Jaskier’s hip. “Just keep telling me, all right?”

_ “Gods,  _ Geralt, are you actually  _ asking  _ me to be chatty for once?”

Geralt sighs heavily. He feels buoyant, as he tugs at Jaskier’s trousers.

“I suppose I am. Can I?”

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes, “oh,  _ yes,  _ please—”

And then,  _ finally,  _ Geralt’s gotten him undressed. 

He’s spectacular. 

Yes, Geralt’s seen him naked before, but never like this, never splayed out and wanting, flushed and hard for him. His dark body hair is soft under Geralt’s palms, his muscles sturdy and lithe, his cock hard and thick against his stomach. 

“You’re beautiful,” Geralt murmurs, a thought he’s had so many times it seems impossible he hasn’t said it aloud, but of course he hasn’t. Jaskier gives a happy hum, preening under his gaze, but Geralt hardly has any time to appreciate it before Jaskier’s making short work of his trousers. 

If Geralt feels a flash of shame spark through him, at how scarred and ancient his body feels next to Jaskier’s loveliness, it only lasts a moment. It’s impossible for him to feel anything close to shame when Jaskier’s scent brims with bright, intense want, when his hands are on Geralt immediately, when he can’t stop babbling praise. 

“Oh, look at you, come here. You’re fucking  _ spectacular,  _ I can’t believe I get to tell you I love you now, I can’t believe I get to touch you, not just wash you or bind your damn wounds, but  _ touch _ you the way I’ve been aching to, Geralt, fuck, you have no idea.”

“I think I’m starting to,” Geralt murmurs. Jaskier presses him into the bed, and then his mouth is on him, hot and eager. On every scar, on every wound that healed because Jaskier tended to it, and then on other parts of Geralt’s body Jaskier never touched before. 

“Fuck, can I, please—”

Geralt’s breath catches. He gives a quick nod and Jaskier groans, sinking his mouth around Geralt’s cock.

It’s too good. Not just the perfect, plush heat of Jaskier’s mouth, his velvet tongue, the squeeze of his throat, but his simple presence between Geralt’s thighs. He takes Geralt to the hilt again and again, and Geralt can feel himself pushing his limit at the back of Jaskier’s throat but Jaskier’s nothing but eager and hungry and  _ happy  _ at his task. His hands can’t stop moving, traversing Geralt’s stomach, dipping to cup his balls, to prod exploratively below, and Geralt’s knuckles go white on the sheets before long.

“Fuck. Come here.”

Jaskier pulls off, eyes half-lidded and silly with lust. His mouth is damp with spit and precome, and heat flares in Geralt’s belly. 

“You know what’s not fair,” he says, allowing Geralt to manhandle him up the bed and onto his front, “is how you let me get my mouth on your  _ magnificent  _ cock and then took it away after only—Geralt?”

“Wouldn’t’ve stopped you, but I need to fuck you properly,” Geralt grunts. “Want to eat you out first. Is that all right?”

Geralt smells the precome spilling onto the sheet before he hears Jaskier’s high, lovely sound of assent. Jaskier parts his thighs wantonly and Geralt spreads them further. 

“Fuck,” he breathes. He holds Jaskier’s cheeks apart, feeling the muscle flex beneath his palms, feeling Jaskier try valiantly not to rut his erection against the bed. His hole is tight, clenching as Geralt watches. And he does, even as his veins race with need and desire, he just watches for a moment, taking in how good Jaskier looks, how deeply Jaskier really does want him. He keeps Jaskier spread with one hand, licks his thumb and rubs it over that little entrance. 

_ “Ah!  _ Th-thought you were in a hurry, Geralt,  _ please—” _

“Getting to it,” Geralt assures him, settling low on his belly, close enough to breathe in right at Jaskier’s core. He smells so fucking good. Like the herbs from the bath he’d taken before he went out, like sweat, like that same butter-brightness, and, as always, rather like Geralt, from all their time together. “No right being this cute,” he mutters, and drags the flat of his thick tongue from Jaskier’s balls over his hole.

Jaskier  _ writhes,  _ crying out, his hands tangling in the sheet at once, and Geralt holds him steady. He licks him hard again and again, mouthing at his cheeks too, digging his teeth in the soft flesh there, spurred on by Jaskier bucking against him, rutting helpless against the bed now. And then he focuses on Jaskier’s entrance, swirling his tongue in little circles before firming it and nudging carefully inside, and at that, Jaskier goes utterly still, silent but for small, broken sounds. Geralt presses deeper, humming approvingly at the tight, smooth clench, and Jaskier twitches at the vibration so Geralt does it again and again and Jaskier opens for him, letting him in further until Geralt can fuck him deep with his tongue. He revels in this, tasting him, twisting, appreciating just how clearly he can tell Jaskier loves it. He pulls back and sucks on Jaskier’s rim, licking at it, kissing his hole open-mouthed and sloppy, and then presses his tongue in even deeper, curling it, and Jaskier whimpers a string of words that sound something like  _ yes  _ and  _ oh, fuck  _ and  _ Geralt, please  _ and not much of anything else, over and over. 

Geralt sits up and lunges forward, covering Jaskier’s body with his own and kissing his slack mouth without wiping his own, and Jaskier makes a beautiful, obscene sound at his own taste, at the length of Geralt’s desperately hard cock pressing against his spitslick hole.

“Tell me you have oil,” Geralt rasps.

Jaskier points with a shaky hand, and Geralt goes to fetch it from his things. 

“I  _ need  _ your cock inside me,” Jaskier says, his voice rough and fucking gorgeous, “but I could come just like that, just, ah. Just so you know.  _ Fuck,  _ Geralt, you’re good with your mouth.”

“Glad you think so,” Geralt says softly, climbing on top of him again. He gets himself slick, gently presses oil inside Jaskier. “Consider it noted.” He flexes his fingers deep and Jaskier arches, his mouth falling open. 

_ “Ah _ —ah, Geralt, wait, can I turn over? Can I look at you, please—”

Geralt hums, nuzzling Jaskier’s nape one last time, and withdraws to let Jaskier roll over and arrange himself. Geralt smiles without realizing he’s doing it.

“Hey,” he murmurs. Jaskier’s a  _ mess,  _ sweaty and disheveled and pink in the cheeks. “Hmm.”

“What?” Jaskier lets out a ragged sound as Geralt pushes his fingers in again.

“I’ve seen you a thousand different ways,” he says, his voice quiet in their shared breath. “Golden mornings and tired nights. Chatty and curious, or lost in your compositions.” Geralt presses deep and kisses him and Jaskier kisses him back, panting as he does. “I’ve loved every version of you, every shade of yourself you’ve ever shown me, Jaskier. I’m just very grateful I get to love this one too. And that I finally get to tell you.” 

“Oh,” Jaskier says, and his eyes are very bright suddenly, the sweet bright smell of him filling the room. “Oh Geralt, I love you, I love you, I love you,” and he doesn’t stop saying it, Geralt slips his fingers free and shifts into place and he doesn’t stop saying it until Geralt enters and starts to move, and then he can’t, for quite some time, say anything coherent at all.

He’s tight and slick and perfect, warm and giving, moving with Geralt, rising to meet him. Geralt watches, fascinated and feverish with love, as Jaskier adjusts to take him, as his nostrils flare and his lips part and his head twists to the side, his throat curving prettily as he moans and grits his teeth. His eyes keep fluttering shut, but he keeps peeking through those lovely lashes to watch Geralt right back. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, cupping Geralt’s cheek, “you’re inside me, you’re really inside me.”

“Is it...okay?” He smells perfectly content, his usual scent heightened with lust this close, but Geralt needs to be sure—and Jaskier laughs. Not his usual laugh, something rougher and gladder.

“You’re joking,” he says.  _ “Never,  _ Geralt, I’ve never had anything like this—”

“Flatterer.” Geralt snaps his hips, and Jaskier rewards him with a ragged moan. 

“Am  _ not,”  _ he manages. “Not now, anyway,” and then he takes Geralt’s face in both hands, drags him in for a deep, hungry kiss. “I mean it, Geralt, I need you to know I mean it, okay? It’s because it’s  _ you.”  _ He kisses him again, and their bodies move together like they were made to, building this sweet crash of pleasure between them. “Because I’ve wanted you, for  _ so  _ long,” Jaskier says, his voice breaking, “and it’s really, really happening—and also you’re a really good fuck, Geralt,  _ ffuck— _ but—it’s because I  _ love  _ you, I love you, gods, I love you.” Jaskier moans again, his limbs going around Geralt, giving himself over to the rhythm between them, and he murmurs the next words like a secret into Geralt’s ear. “Please keep me,” he says, “please stay, I love you, I want you, I don’t want you to stop, please—”

“Hey.” Geralt twists to kiss his mouth again. Gently this time, almost chaste, even as he moves inside him, even as he feels Jaskier’s cock hot between their bodies. “Hey. I’m yours.”

Jaskier shivers, gazing up at him with bright, wide eyes. 

“Really?”

“I’ve been yours longer than I knew I was,” Geralt tells him softly. “I am… _ very  _ yours.” 

“Oh,” Jaskier whispers, “oh, oh  _ love—” _

“Being yours is the best thing I’ve ever been.”

_ “Geralt.” _ Jaskier says his name and it sounds somehow both exactly like it always does when Jaskier says his name, and something new entirely, wrecked and wanting and happy beyond belief. 

“I’m here,” Geralt says. He reaches between them, and Jaskier sobs, clenching his teeth, tightening around Geralt as Geralt strokes him. “And I’m yours.” 

“I’m  _ yours,”  _ Jaskier gasps, “I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m—oh, oh, Geralt, please, I’m getting close—”

“I’ve got you,” Geralt murmurs, stroking Jaskier’s length. 

“Would—” Jaskier bites his lip. “Would you tell me how it feels?”

Geralt’s brow furrows.

“You’re the one good with words.”

“Please?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt finds he can’t deny him anything, anymore.

“Incredible,” he murmurs. He moves in short, deep thrusts, pounding in firmly right where it makes Jaskier’s scent spike and his back arch. “You feel so good around me, Jask, the way you’re pulling me in. The way you’re open for me.” He mouths messily along Jaskier’s jaw, his throat, as Jaskier pulses precome over his fist. 

“I— _ love _ having you inside me,” Jaskier groans. He’s panting, his face contorted, and Geralt can tell he’s close. He’s never seen him like this before. He’s so  _ fucking  _ beautiful. “Fuck,  _ fuck _ —don’t stop, please—”

“And your cock,” Geralt tells him, his voice a low rumble. “Mm. Feels so good in my hand. I love how wet you are for me.” He runs his thumb over Jaskier’s slit and Jaskier twitches, his mouth opening in a silent scream. “You’re so big and thick. I want to fuck you every way you’ll have me, Jask, and I can’t wait to sit on your lap and take you. I know—” and here, Geralt’s losing control too, his hips stuttering. He tries to focus on his thrusts, to focus on bringing Jaskier over the edge, but it’s so good and his own words are working on him too. “I know you’ll take care of me. Like you always do. I know you’ll make it so good. Wanna make it good for you. Jask, fuck, you’re clenching around me. I want to know what you look like when you come. I want to know what you  _ feel  _ like, when you come. I want to feel you come on my cock.”

Jaskier cries out and clenches so hard Geralt can hardly hold back, but he does just long enough to keep his pace up as Jaskier comes spectacularly between them, the thick scent of it filling the room, come hitting his chest and throat and Geralt’s chin. He shudders, writhing as Geralt fucks him through it. Geralt keeps stroking his cock until he feels his own orgasm blazing relentless through him, and he nearly panics until he feels Jaskier’s hands on his hips, drawing him in deeper, urging him close.

“Please,” Jaskier says again, his voice hoarse, “please, love, go on, I want it so badly, fill me up— _ oh, Geralt.” _

Geralt comes, a strange, high sound wrenched from his chest as he does. The pleasure careens through him pure and fierce, and for the first time in his life it comes without a hint of fear or shame or self-loathing. Through it, Jaskier murmurs praise in his ear, filthy and loving and so, so undeniably pleased with him.

“Wow,” Jaskier says, when Geralt slips free at last. “Oh,  _ wow.  _ That was fucking incredible— _ mmph!” _

“Sorry,” Geralt says, pulling back from the kiss. “I want to hear what you thought. I just wanted to kiss you, too.”

Jaskier beams, and kisses him again. 

“Don’t you ever,” he murmurs into Geralt’s mouth, “apologize for kissing me. And yes, that was the best fuck I’ve had in my life. You’d better do it again very shortly. And please don’t tell me if it wasn’t the best fuck of your life, you are  _ very  _ old and it’s really not my fault that I’ve got actual sorceresses to contend with.”

“Jaskier. It was the best sex of my life.” Geralt says, honestly. Jaskier’s eyes light up.

“Don’t you lie to me, witcher. D’you mean it?”

“‘Course I do.” Geralt curls up in Jaskier’s arms, pulling the blanket over them. “It’s you and me. Nothing’s ever felt so right.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier murmurs, his voice warm with love. 

This kiss is thoroughly exhausted. It’s messy, what with the slick and come and oil between them. (Geralt makes a mental note to tip the innkeeper handsomely tomorrow.) And it’s perfect. 

“Can’t take another bath. I am  _ too  _ tired,” Jaskier yawns. His hand is in Geralt’s hair again, and Geralt nuzzles into him. 

“I’ll throw you in a river tomorrow.”

“Deal. If you join me in the river.”

“If I join you in the river we’re going to get messy again.”

“I’m counting on it.”

Geralt’s nearly asleep, comforted on Jaskier’s strong chest, when Jaskier snorts a laugh.

“Hmm?”

“You know what? Thank Melitele you’d gotten my clothes off beforehand.” Jaskier buries a kiss in Geralt’s hair. “I never could have waited.” 

Geralt groans at the thought.

“Neither could I.” He squeezes Jaskier’s waist. “Next time you want me, you’re wearing my shirt.” He’s just teasing, but Jaskier’s scent spikes, and Geralt hides a grin in his shoulder.

“Oh, fuck  _ yes,”  _ Jaskier says at once. 

Geralt sleeps better that night than he has in years. Jaskier does too. 

Not much about their lives changes after that, except there’s considerably more kissing, and it turns out life is a lot brighter when one doesn’t have to keep their feelings bottled up so tight. Summers on the coast, winters together at Kaer Morhen, that’s new. Oh, and Geralt helps Jaskier into his clothes with some regularity from now on. 

And out of them.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! <3 
> 
> find me on tumblr @ [welcomemysentence](https://welcomemysentence.tumblr.com/)


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